


Study Sessions

by Glass_Jacket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Face Sitting, Fingering, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Reader Insert, Sam is an apt pupil in all things including eating pussy and he probably takes notes, Samilingus, Squirting, handjob, i went to uni in canada and i think there are dorm rooms that have showers, just go with it, lets just say the reader is on the pill and everyone is clean okay, lots of orgasms, references to Jaws, so there happens to be a shower in the reader's dorm room, terrible puns, unprotected sex, vague mentions of studying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-27 12:09:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15024305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glass_Jacket/pseuds/Glass_Jacket
Summary: He’s sweet, but not overtly.  He listens and asks questions, is engaged, and can hold a conversation, but he’s not above sinking a few beers and listening to grunge music a little too loudly.  Maybe he’s settled his hand on your lower back once or twice, guiding you through a stack of books in the library, and maybe he knows how you like your coffee, and maybe, just maybe, you’re wondering what it’s like to kiss him.





	1. Pop Quiz

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-series, slightly AU: Sammy is at university, but it’s not Standford (ergo no Jessica), and he doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life quite yet.

An offensively jagged, red _67_ graces the upper corner of the front page to your unit quiz in Greek Mythology, and you slump into your seat among the rustle of papers as students flip through their quizzes and compare answers. The last thing you want to do is discuss your mark - you glance at it again and wince. There’s a tiny voice in the back of your mind telling you that a D+ on a quiz isn’t the end of the world, but this sort of thing hasn’t ever happened to you. It’s the second semester of your second year and things had been going great until you got stuck with Professor Maria Kotsetas. You’re fairly certain she’s actually a fury, or maybe Athena incarnate: intimidatingly smart, and fierce, and a no-nonsense bit-

“Hey. How’d you do?”

You’re pulled out of your thoughts by the deep rasp of a voice hovering above you and you glance up and find yourself staring at a chest wrapped in plaid flannel. Craning your neck a bit more you see that the ridiculously hot guy who sits one row behind you, three seats to your right, is standing there, a hopeful grin on his face and his own quiz clutched in his hand. You frown and cover the mark with your hand, even though you know he’s already seen it. 

“It’s just a quiz,” you shrug.

His face scrunches in sympathy. “That bad?”

His attempt to soothe you makes you bristle, even though he’s incredibly charming and you know he’s just trying to be a good guy. “I just need to study harder for the final,” you declare.

He nods and sweeps the fall of dark hair from his eyes. “Well, hey, if you want, maybe we could...get a coffee? Go over a few things? I mean, I did okay, but judging from the discussions you’ve had with Kotsetas in class, I’d say you know your stuff.”

“Tell that to her,” you growl, nodding your chin in the direction of said suspected fury. Then you glance back at him. “Did you say coffee?” You have your weaknesses, everyone does. Yours happens to be caffeine and tall guys in flannel shirts. He fills the quota nicely.

The smile he gives you is effulgent, and he nods. “I did,” he laughs. “Who knows? Maybe we can teach each other a few things.”

+

It’s been several weeks since Sam Winchester first asked you out for a cup of coffee, and in the time leading up to the final, you’ve built a fairly solid friendship. A casual camaraderie. You’re chummy, for sure, meeting up between classes in the places your paths naturally cross, a few group meetups over lunch, and review sessions in the library every week that usually end with Sam wandering away to the rare books collection in the basement of the stacks, and you have to go and fetch him because the library is closing in ten minutes. He never does say what he’s looking for when he’s there, but he always seems a bit more thoughtful when he leaves, silently processing whatever information he’s stumbled across. 

He was born to study, you decide, to research, and to learn. He absorbs knowledge like a sponge and stores it all, able to recall at a moment’s notice, and you envy him and his brain. You’re no slouch, but when he’d first suggested that you could learn from each other, you figured you’d end up tutoring him. Instead, it’s a reciprocal arrangement, and he seems just as eager to learn what you discover as you are to pour over rare copies of Greek Myth translated from sources that doctrine students have a hard time getting their hands on.

He’s sweet, too, but not overtly. He listens and asks questions, is engaged, and can hold a conversation, but he’s not above sinking a few beers and listening to grunge music a little too loudly. Maybe he’s settled his hand on your lower back once or twice, guiding you through a stack of books in the library, and maybe he knows how you like your coffee, and maybe, just maybe, you’re wondering what it’s like to kiss him.

Ugh, you can _NOT_ be falling for Sam Winchester. Not now. Not before finals, not based solely on how his forearms look when his shirt sleeves are rolled up, just not at all. But while you’re still staring at said forearms and the way they flex as he clutches the shoulder strap of his backpack, he starts talking and then he stops and your face burns when you realize he’s asked a question, but you were definitely not listening to him.

“Sorry, what?”

There’s _that_ smile, the dazzling one, and the dimple, and he flicks his dark hair from his eyes before repeating himself. “Studying tonight? We’ll work in my dorm. No distractions, like in the library,” he chuckles. “I tend to wander, I know.”

Why is it so fucking sexy when he admits his flaws? “Yeah, you do,” you nod. “And I’m always the one who has to go fetch you.”

“Well, there’s not a lot of places for me to get lost in my room,” he shrugs. “Just a bed, a couch, a kitchenette, half a bathroom…” He flashes that smile _again_ , and you just want to lick his jawline. “I’ll make you coffee? Come on, we both want to ace that exam.”

You agree. Of _course_ , you agree. The study session is for educational purposes only, you’d tell yourself several times over while you’re getting ready that night, and not an excuse to ogle Sam Winchester, no matter how hot he is. You pause in the mirror when you catch yourself trying to decide which shirt looks better with the jeans you have on, and you quickly shut down any notion that this could be something - anything - more than studying. 

_It’s just like studying with him in the library_ , you tell yourself as you slip back into your favourite sweats and t-shirt, and take your contacts out before putting your glasses on. Only without the distraction of books. And other people. Just you and Sam Winchester. In his dorm room. Alone.

 _It’s not a date it’s not a date it’s not a date it’s not a date it’s not a -_

“Hey! Come in - sorry, it’s a bit of a mess, I got distracted by this book that I ordered from the University of Chicago and before I knew it it was seven and-” Sam has answered the door and now stands helplessly shrugging at the laundry draped over the back of his small couch, and the empty cereal bowl on the coffee table. “I’ll just...yeah, be right back.” He scoops the pile of shirts up, snags the bowl off of the table as he dashes by, and then disappears into the kitchenette first, and then the bedroom. “Hey,” he says again when he comes back, pushing a hand through his hair.

_Do not jump him do not jump him do not jump him do not-_

“Do you want coffee? I was just about to make some…” he trails off when you nod. “Feel free to look around,” he then offers, pointing to his bookcase as a possible place to start. 

Your eyes widen with excitement and you drop your bag near his couch and begin perusing the spines of his collection, pulling one out here and there and flicking through pages as he busies himself in the kitchenette. There are titles here you’ve only heard of, and you’re pretty sure some of these are first editions. There are no call numbers affixed to the spines to indicate they’re on loan from a library, nor are there any signs that he’s purchased them. They look well-loved, used, and respected. You lighten your touch on the pages and begin turning them delicately, becoming absorbed with the information printed on them.

“Where did you find these?” you call out, looking to the kitchenette.

Sam looks up from where he’s dropping a filter into the coffee maker. “Hmm? Which one?”

You hold up a book of myth written in Attic Greek - not modern, actual ancient Greek - and it’s not from a printing press or even a publishing house. In fact, the pages are handwritten and kept loose in a leather folder worn with age.

“Oh. That one...is actually my dad’s.” His smile fades and he turns to the sink to fill the pot.

He’s never really talked about his family, but the little he’s shared has allowed you to piece together that he has an older brother, Dean, and that his mother passed away some time ago. The subject of his father has always been avoided. Tonight is definitely not the night to steer in that direction and so you gently place the book back where you found it, and skim along the stacks until you find something from this century.

“ _Jaws_?” You call out, pulling the novel out and thumbing through the pages.

“What’s that?” Sam asks, coming back into the living room.

You hold up the book for him to see.

Tucking his hands into his pockets, and managing to look like a six-foot-five eight-year-old, he shuffles over the carpet and smiles, this one small and rare. “My mom’s.”

You’re silent for a spell, compelled to hand the book back to Sam, but he makes a gesture with his hand that urges you to open it. “She always said it had the best first line of any book she’d read: _‘The great fish moved silently through the night water.’_ ”

Sure enough, when you open it to the first page, there is the line, a smooth line of blue ink running beneath it, and an asterisk beside it. “It is a great line,” you agree.

“It’s the first real novel I ever read. I was ten.” Sam grins and shakes his head. “And that line made me think I wanted to be a writer.”

“Really?” you ask, genuinely interested. Even after being in his company for so long, he’s been more open with you in the confines of his dorm room than he has ever been before. You close the book and delicately set it on the shelf before you turn your attention back to Sam. “So, now what do you want to be?”

“I have no idea,” he laughs, and you laugh with him. “Honestly, at this point, I just want to pass my classes.” He’s silent for a moment, watching you with those eyes that can't decide if they want to be blue or brown or green, and then he reaches up and pulls the copy of _Jaws_ from the shelf once more and hands it to you. “Here.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine.”

Sam shakes his head. “No, really. I think you’ll like it.”

You accept with a smile and nod. “I promise I’ll get it back to you. I know what it’s like to lend out a book and not get it back. And this one obviously means a lot to you.” You look up from the cover emblazoned with the giant shark and the woman swimming placidly along the surface of the water, unaware of the danger.

“Let’s get set up.” Sam’s voice breaks the spell of calm that has been cast, and the rare glimpse of him, the one that told you his past aspirations of becoming a writer, vanishes, and he’s back in student mode. You bite back a sigh and nod and follow him to the couch. 

+

There has been studying, of course, but it has quickly gone from reviewing the role of the gods in Homer’s _Odyssey_ to Sam intently observing you sitting next to him on the floor cross-legged, with the end of your pen pressed between your lips, books open and scattered on the low table as you both pored over passages. His gaze settles on that sight as he pulls his own lip between his teeth, and pink tinges his cheeks. HIs lashes flutter bashfully when he finally realizes he’s staring, and he ducks his head, reaching for his highlighter and clearing his throat when your hand lands on his arm and stops him.

“Would you feel less embarrassed if I told you I stare at your mouth, too?” You softly admit.

The corner of his mouth hitches up in a wry grin, and he dares another glance your way. “Is that so?” he chuckles.

You nod, cocking your head to prove your point. “Uh huh,” you mumble. You’re still touching his arm, and you can feel the heat of his skin through the green and white plaid of his flannel.

“You know,” Sam continues, one eyebrow going up. “I...think you’ve got a pretty good grasp on the topics here.” He gestures to the books.

“It fascinates me,” you shrug, but your gaze never wavers from him.

“And,” he continues, setting his highlighter down and shifting closer, rolling to lean on his hip, “there is such a thing as information overload. Maybe we could...take a break?” The distance between you grows smaller as he edges in.

“Do something different?” You add, raising your eyebrows expectantly. You can’t help but lean toward him, too.

“Uh huh,” he replies, mimicking your less-than-verbose answer from only moments before. 

His mouth hangs open in a smile, his breath just this side of panting, and you notice that his eyes flicker from your eyes, to your mouth, and back up.

You lick your lips and watch his pupils dilate when you ask, “What did you have in mind?”

+

Sam initiates the kiss, and though you are a little taken aback - not by the kiss, per se, but maybe by the bold move on his part, and the situation at hand - you are enthusiastic to return it, loving the sound he makes in his throat as he tastes your tongue with his, feeling the hitch in his breath when you curl his hair behind his ear and draw the tips of your fingers over the skin there, and down his neck to his Adam’s apple. It bobs as he swallows your own moan, and you grow dizzy at the sensation of his broad-palmed hands cupping your face to hold you steady.

Those hands slip to your neck, his thumbs up under your jaw, tilting you into his mouth with gentle pressure and you whimper at the tiny show of power in the move. Next, he sucks your bottom lip and pulls away, leaning his forehead against yours. “Am I moving too fast?” he asks breathlessly.

“What?” you gulp, blinking up at him and pulling back a fraction to see his face. “Are you serious right now?”

He ducks his head, cheeks heating, and he shrugs as best he can with you half in his lap. “I’m always serious about this kind of thing. I don’t want to...we don’t have to-”

“Sam,” you say, shifting until you’re fully seated in his lap, the edge of the table digging into your back and the hardwood of the floor solid beneath your knees, “We have to.”

“What?” he asks, a little dumbfounded at your choice of words.

“We have to, Sam,” you say, edging your voice with mock seriousness. Your hands slide to his shirt collar and you grip it, pulling him up from where he’s sprawled back against the couch. “You can’t kiss me like that and...and just not... _not_.”

Sam drags at his bottom lip with his teeth and he looks down at you from beneath his brows. “Not _fuck_?” he whispers roughly. He tilts his hips, somehow scooting you closer in his lap. His hands are grasping the outside of your thighs now, fingers clutching at you through the grey cotton of your campus rec sweatpants.

“Jesus, Sam, don’t say things like that,” you groan, wiggling in your perch and making you both gasp.

He narrows his gaze and studies you intently for a moment. “I don’t know,” he drawls thoughtfully. “I think you like it when I say things like that. When I talk about _fucking_.”

He whispers the last word again, and it sends a tendril of arousal twisting through your limbs hard enough to make you shudder in his lap. “Sam,” you gulp, pulling his shirt and pushing your mouth to his.

For several moments there is nothing but wet, deep kissing, hands wandering over flannel and cotton, dragging and tugging in an attempt to convey the need for skin against skin. He feeds his own desire, pushing your t-shirt up and over your head, palming the flesh of your naked shoulders, your back, your flanks, anywhere he could touch you, and then some. Deft fingers make swift work of your bra, and when you break away to take a breath it’s flung aside. You stop to look at one another then. You see his swollen mouth, his blown pupils, and the way his nostrils flare as he looks you up and down.

“I wonder what else you might like,” he says, almost to himself. His hands are one you in the next breath, cupping you easily, his thumbs dragging over the peaks as his tongue flashes out along his bottom lip. He looks up then, and his smile is charming and nefarious all at once. “I’m a quick study. You’ll...tell me what I need to work on, won’t you?”

+

He’s discovered that the top to tail catalogue he created with his hands and mouth was an educational journey, and he makes special note of the way you writhe in his lap when he focuses attention on your nipples. He waits on you there, alternating between quick, harsh flicks of his tongue and sucking the tips long and slow until you’re shaking and clutching his shoulders. It’s when he settles his hands on your hips and begins moving you in his lap, his erection digging into through the layers of his denim and your sweatpants, that you begin to pant, and moan, causing him to double his efforts.

You breathe his name and clutch his head to you, rolling your hips and trying to find pressure in all the right places. He groans into your skin in response and pulls back with shining lips, a line of spit still connecting his mouth to the swollen, reddened peak he’s lavished with his attention.

“Can you come from just this?” he asks, his voice thick, and rasping.

“I - I…” you have no way of answering because you just don’t know.

“I bet you can.” His tongue wraps a tight circle around one nipple, and when his teeth close on it and tug, he looks up at you.

Choking on a moan, your spine curves, pressing into his mouth, his hands - anything to get closer, and to relieve the pressure that is building in the space between your hips.

“That’s it,” he mutters, and then you’re staring at the way his teeth look on your skin, the way his tongue slips wetly, and how he savours the taste and texture of your flesh.

White flashes of light pop in your vision and there is a low ringing in your ears. You claw his shoulders and roll your hips as your breath comes faster. Suddenly, his mouth leaves you with a gasp of praise, and you barely have time to utter a protest when the thumbs and forefingers of both of his hands close on your nipples and squeeze. His mouth finds yours, fast and feral, and he growls into it as his fingertips tug sharply.

The feel of his tongue against yours, the sharpness of his fingers pulling and twisting the swollen tips of your breasts, and the way he thrusts against the molten heat pooling in your underwear is enough for you to make good on his wager. You melt in his lap, shaking and almost sobbing with the sensations that course through your body. It’s a struggle to catch your breath, your fingers lacing behind the nape of Sam’s neck as you try to steady yourself.

“How’d I do?” Sam murmurs, his fingers still squeezing gently and making you jerk and sigh.

You sag where you’re perched, your head falling back as you stare at the ceiling with a long, satisfied hum. “Gold star,” you breathe, smiling as his laughter shakes you.

+

You’re on your back, spread open like one of Sam’s many books on the table, your sweatpants peeled off and discarded like the yellow ‘used’ sticker from the cover of your battered, second-hand textbook. Your underwear followed, and Sam’s dark head is now buried between your thighs. 

While you don’t discourage the way his tongue slowly teases each crease and swell of your folds, you gently guide his head in a suggestion of how he might better use his time and position. Taking the hint, he swipes his tongue in a broad path from bottom to top, ending with a swirl of his tongue around your clit. It makes you yelp, and gasp, and stare down at his adorably pensive face as he appears to commit the result to memory. Then, he does it again, and again, varying pressure and speed. After a few more moments study he goes for broke and pushes his tongue deep and curls it, and opens his mouth wide to settle the flat of his teeth against your clit. You come alive then, knees bent, hips canted forward, and your fingers threaded into his hair as you beg him not to stop.

He hums and shakes his head gently before moving back a fraction of an inch. “Like Aphrodite's golden apple,” he sighs before taking a lush bite with his lips. His reward is your thighs shaking, as your fingers tug at his hair and you scream his name.

His hands have pinned your thighs open and he’s hovering, blowing a small stream of cool air over the heated, wet flesh of your cunt. Then, he moves up a fraction of an inch, and you’re shivering, shaking your head that you need a moment.

He gives you another sly smile. “There’s so much to cover, though. I know there are more than two ways to make you come.” He looks down again and his face draws in concentration. “Here,” he says, looking back to you as he drops his mouth down and makes an example of your clit. 

He swirls his tongue around, alpha to omega with a special focus on sigma. When he’s got you where he wants you - pushing him away with a frustrated whimper and pulling him in with a desperate moan - he closes his lips around you and sucks, stroking his tongue over that swollen bit until you’re shaking, and crying, and trying to close your legs against his vice-like grip. A third orgasm races up your spine like a lightning bolt and leaves you aching, hot and cold and arching into his mouth. Only when you sag back to the table does he let up. His mouth softens but doesn’t leave you, and his tongue is lazy, dipping inside and sliding back up, swirling all of the wetness of his mouth and your release around in a lewdly satisfying _slurp_. 

He sits back, licks his lips, and his gaze is almost contemplative. Then he looks back at you and everything is hazy. You guess it’s from the fact he’s made you come three times in under ten minutes and he’s still got his clothes on. His hands smooth over your thighs and up to your hips, his thumbs dragging in the creases of both joints. It makes you jolt, and giggle, and reach for his hand.

“Do you need a minute?” he asks, leaning up over you, one hand braced on the table next to your shoulder, the other linking fingers with your hand that grabbed his.

You shake your head and close your eyes. “Just you.” You flex your thighs and stretch, uttering a satisfied curse before wincing at the hard surface of the table under you. “You,” you repeat, “and a bed.”

Sam laughs, and nods, and stands up, tugging your hand and bringing you with him. You stand with trembling legs, blushing madly as he seems to make a mental note of your state with a somewhat smug expression that would be infuriating were he someone different. But you know Sam, have known him for a few semesters, and you know that he is a dedicated student, and he absorbs knowledge wherever, and whenever he can and will apply it to the best of his ability when necessary. The thought makes you swoon a little, and Sam steadies you.

“You okay?” He murmurs after you’ve stared at him for a few heartbeats.

“I think I need some water,” you rasp, allowing him to wrap the flannel shirt he’s shrugged out of around your shoulders.

He smiles and nods, and leads the way to his bedroom, settling you on the edge of his bed. “Be right back.” He disappears back down the hall to the tiny half bathroom in his dorm room and you hear the faucet running. When he comes back, it’s with a glass of water, and he hands it to you, and you gulp it down in three big swallows, setting the glass back as you let out a breath and tuck your hair behind your ears.

“That was…” you start, feeling your mouth curve up in a face-splitting smile.

He chuckles. “It was,” he agrees, studying your face. His tongue presses against his bottom lip and he brushes his fingertips over the top of your bare thigh, causing you to shiver as goosebumps rise in their wake. “There was one more thing I wanted to review. Before we call it a night.” His gaze cuts to the clock on his nightstand - you both know it’s late, and you both know that a good night’s rest is best for education.

But you also know that there is no way in hell you can go back to your dorm room without at least giving him a chance to do a final review. You nod. “What did we miss?” It seems like a silly fucking question, really - there’s a _lot_ you haven’t done yet. 

He looks at you as his hand curves over your thigh, cupping it, and then he slides his palm up to the space between your thighs. You’re still soaked, still hot and throbbing, and your knees widen as your tongue presses between your teeth. There’s a delicious flex of your core muscles brought on by his touch, his proximity, his voice, his scent...just _him_ , all of him, and you wonder if you’ll ever have enough time to study every part of him like he’s taken to analyze you.

“I’m curious,” he muses, twisting so that he’s perched on the bed facing your side, one of his long legs thrown over yours closest to him, the other stretched out behind you so that you’re caged in. He’s still hard where he’s pressed to your hip, and you feel him shift back and forth a few times as if trying to find some modicum of relief. It’s got to be agony, you figure, but then the hand between your thighs palms your pussy, ring and middle fingers sliding down into the slick and nudging at your opening, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit, and all your other thoughts drop off entirely. He leans in, lathing your neck with a swipe of his tongue, and he settles his mouth next to your ear, his chest pressed against your shoulder, radiating heat.

You can hear him breathing, and yourself, too - short, breathy gasps, while you’re waiting on tenterhooks for him to tell you what he’s got planned. Your nipples are tight, brushing against the front of his shirt where it lays unbuttoned against you, and you really don’t think you’ve got anything left to give him, no matter how much you want to, when he bends his wrist and sinks those two fingers into you up to the second knuckle and curves them. You buck into his hand and grab his wrist with a shocked cry.

He hums in interest, and thickly rasps, “Are you a squirter?”

+


	2. Let's Review

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can’t even really remember anything, _that’s_ how good it was, and suddenly you’re longing - _aching_ \- to experience it all over again. Biting your lip, you pull your phone from your bag and open your list of contacts, scrolling until you find Sam’s number. For a moment you contemplate your plan of action, but then you swiftly change your mind and decide that calling him would be too obvious.

You’re drifting in warmth, and relative darkness, though there’s that nagging feeling that the sun has come up, and you need to start the day.  The bed you’re in isn’t yours, it’s bigger somehow, softer, and it smells divine - different laundry soap, mint and spruce shampoo, with that lingering spice of men’s deodorant.  The weight of gentle hands gliding across the back of your neck and over your shoulders is soothing, and your fingers curl into worn cotton before skating along smooth skin stretched over hard muscle.

 

“Hey.  You awake?”  Your name being whispered gently upends you from wherever you’re drifting and you open your eyes to see Sam staring at you where you’re definitely sprawled on him on his bed.

 

“Huh?”

 

He gives you a smile that makes your insides go a bit gooey and you just want to sigh and bury your face into his chest and wrap yourself his flannel shirt which you’re still wearing.  Given your position, you opt for the chest nuzzle. “Jesus, I have to get back to my room,” you say, though the words are muffled into his pectoral. “What time is it?”

 

Sam lifts his head to peer over your body to where his clock sits on the table next to the bed.  “Just after eight. Eight-oh-seven.” He seems perfectly at ease, and in no hurry to get anywhere.

 

“Hm.  ‘Kay.”  You close your eyes and are just about to drift back off to sleep when you are jolted awake again.  “Shit! Is today Thursday?” You push up from his chest and stare at him with wide eyes.

 

His smile falters a bit and he nods.  “Yeah?”

 

“Oh, fuck!  Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ !” You jerk away from Sam and roll to the edge of the mattress, swinging your feet to the floor to stand.  It practically swoops up from beneath you and you crumble back to the bed with a groan.

 

“Hey - hey slow down,” he says, concern lacing his words as he clambers next to you.

 

You shake your head, get your bearings, and stand once more.  “I can’t slow down, I’m going to be  _ late _ for my eight thirty class - I’m  _ never _ late for class!  Where are my pants? My shirt?”  You pause and glare accusingly at Sam, who has stood as well, dressed in the same t-shirt and jeans he was wearing the night before.  His belt hasn’t even budged. “How the fuck are you not naked? Didn’t we both get naked at some point?”

 

“Ah,” he has the good graces to blush sheepishly.  “Not...not really, no. You kinda...blacked out at the end and I figured I’d let you sleep.”  He spread his hands placatingly. “I’m sorry, I should have got you back to your room-”

 

“Don’t be sorry,” you cut him off, warming with the memory - or at least  _ some _ of the memories - from the night before.  “Be helpful. I need pants. And coffee.”

 

“I can do coffee,” he nods, moving out to the hallway.  “Your pants are...where I, um, flung them last night. Behind the couch.” He gives a vague wave toward the living area.

 

You nod and swiftly button his shirt before folding back the sleeves.  “I’m borrowing this.”

 

“Okay,” he nods again, giving you a lopsided grin as he watches you try to fit into his shirt.

 

You glance up at him and seriously contemplate undoing all the buttons you’ve just fastened, and then working on his.  Then, you remember that you’re late, you still don’t have pants, and that Sam promised you coffee. “Shit!”

 

“Coffee!” Sam barks at the same time, spinning on his heel and dashing down the hall to his kitchenette.

 

Ten minutes later he’s pushing a mug into your hand, apologizing for his lack of cream, and you wave him off and take a gulp.  While you were skittering around for your clothes, and the coffee was brewing, Sam gathered your books and stacked them neatly.  These, along with your pens and highlighters, he drops into your satchel which is still sitting by his door, and you push your feet into your sneakers and shoulder your bag before draining the cup and handing it back to Sam with an apologetic smile.  

 

“I’m late,” you explain lamely, gesturing to him, to you, the coffee table, the door, and it’s all just slightly awkward.

 

Sam finds it adorable because he chuckles, and nods, and then swoops in and kisses you swiftly.  “Get lost,” he mutters, opening the door and playfully shoving you out. “Meet up later?”

 

You shake your head mournfully.  “I’ve got to get some serious study time in, Winchester,” you grumble.  You find that you’re actually stalling, not wanting to leave him, or things, like this.  “I’m not leaving my room tonight.”

 

He nods.  “Understood.  But if that’s the case, I need to study, too.  If the final was on making you come five times in an hour, well, I’d ace it.”  Your face heats as he grins, and he winks, too. “So, maybe we can try again. To study, of course.  For the final.”

 

“Uh huh,” you nod, a little dazed once more, and then the door to his room shuts, and you’re alone in the hallway of Sam’s dorm room, and you’ve got seven minutes to sprint across campus to your lecture.

 

+

 

_ “Are you close?  Tell me.” _

 

A softly keened cry snaps you from your daydream in the back of Professor Oko’s Art History class and, judging from the few sharp glances sent your way under cover of darkness for the slideshow at the front of the room, you realize that the sound has come from you.  You quickly sit straight and look down at your textbook, and find that you have no idea where you are in the review because all you can hear is Sam’s encouraging, almost insistent, voice.

 

_ “Come on.  Tell me.” _

 

_ “God - Sam!” _

 

The memory of your own reply is desperate, trembling in anticipation.  Sitting there in the dark of the lecture hall your entire body heats as it remembers Sam putting it through its paces.  He’d overwhelmed you, you knew as much because he’d said you’d blacked out. It was more than him tongue-fucking you into your second orgasm, more than him worrying your clit into a blue-blazing third climax.  It was the way he’d asked, so seriously studious, and intent on finding an answer to his question.

 

_ “Are you a squirter?” _

 

You never thought - didn’t think - but praise the gods and goddesses, you  _ are _ .

 

Hell, praise Sam Winchester.  No one had ever touched you like he had.

 

_ “You look so good like this, you know that?  When you come for me, because of me. I could do this for hours.  Do you want to come again?” _

 

“Yes,” you whisper to yourself in the lecture hall.

 

A few heads tilt back to you in question, and you sink into your seat with a sigh of resignation.  The hardwood you’re sitting on isn’t nearly enough as you try to be stealthy and shift, grinding against your seat as best you can, scratching that itch that Sam created.  Your core gives an involuntary clench, and then another, as your mind dregs up an image of his hand, the feel of being stretched around his fingers, and his face rapt with awe and attention as he worked to bring you off.

 

The fucker.  You can’t even really remember anything,  _ that’s _ how good it was, and suddenly you’re longing -  _ aching _ \- to experience it all over again.  Biting your lip, you pull your phone from your bag and open your list of contacts, scrolling until you find Sam’s number.  For a moment you contemplate your plan of action, but then you swiftly change your mind and decide that calling him would be too obvious.

 

_ According to your vague recollection of memories _ , your traitorous inner monologue starts,  _ he made you gush like a fountain.  So what are we trying to not be obvious about? _

 

“That I’m a desperate asshole?” You mutter under your breath before closing your phone and shoving it back into your bag.  You shouldn’t even be worrying about Sam Winchester’s talented fingers and lips and tongue and god, he hadn’t even used his dick and you’re a mess.

 

You’re still thinking of him, and the night before, by the time you get back to your dorm room.  You quickly duck inside, ditch your bag by the door, and strip off your clothes on the way to the bathroom.  A shower and a power nap might be just the thing to perk you up and pull you out of the post-orgasmic hormonal slump you know you’re sinking into.  Of course, once you’re naked and under the water and sluicing body wash over your skin, your mind races back to the night before and you close your eyes and settle one hand on the tile in front of you while the other slips down your belly, over your thighs and lower until you find your clit and stroke it with your fingertips.

 

It’s a lazy exercise, and you lean onto your forearm as the water pours over your back and neck while you execute all the things you know are guaranteed to make yourself come.  Even with your routine you find yourself recalling Sam’s voice, the way his tongue slipped down and inside of you - and here your fingers mimic, but don’t even come close - and what he sounded like as he moaned into your heat.  You shudder and shake the water from your face, and let out a growl. Then, you switch your tactics. Your fingers search harder, deeper, curving into that spot that makes you pant and see stars. This is more like it. You can practically taste your orgasm on your tongue and you arch your spine and bend your wrist further, trying to get as deep as Sam did and you’re close, so fucking close, just a little further, like Sam, just like Sam did, he’s so good, he did so well -  _ fuck! _

 

With a desperate whine, you pull your fingers free, completely unsatisfied and you panic as you start to entertain the notion that one night with Sam Winchester has possibly ruined you even for getting yourself off.  You throb and ache everywhere as you quickly wash and rinse your hair, scrub the rest of your body, and twist the water off a little too viciously. Wrapping a towel around your hair you pad naked out of the bathroom and pick up your discarded clothes just as an inquisitive knock sounds on your dorm room door.

 

You freeze, the pile of clothes in hand, and glance at the door.  “Who is it?”

 

“It’s Sam,” comes the reply.

 

_ Shit! _ You mouth, glancing around and then down at your state of undress.  “Um...hey! I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.” As soon as the words are out of your mouth you close your eyes and curse yourself silently.  What the  _ fuck _ did that even mean?  You were certainly  _ hoping _ you’d see him this soon.

 

“Oh?” he sounds like he’s gently mocking you, but you know it’s coming from a place of good humour.  He waits a beat for good measure and then continues. “You forgot your Bulfinch at my place. It...um...was under the couch.”  You can hear the amusement in his voice, but then it turns into something a little more sultry with his next words: “Must have slid off the table.”

 

A flash of last night streaks across your brain, mainly him pushing you up to the table and clearing the books off with a sweep of his arm as you kissed one another fervently.

 

“Right!” you squeak, blushing.  “Just a second.” You look at the clothes in your hand and toss them to the far end of your couch, snagging the shirt you’d worn from his place that morning and slipping it back on.  The two buttons in the middle are hastily done up and then you’re opening the door. 

 

Sam is there waiting, your copy Bulfinch's Mythology in hand, and a smile on his face.  “Hey,” he breathes, looking you up and down. His eyebrows draw together in concern. “You okay?”

 

You feel yourself heat in the same direction his eyes travel, and you can’t help but press your thighs together as you take in the bare skin of his throat just peeking out of the open top two buttons of his white henley shirt.  He swallows, and the movement of his throat does something funny in your belly, and your fingers curl into fists at your urge to just grab him.

 

“I’m fine.”  You’re not, in fact, fine.  You’re the furthest thing from fine, and your frustration from the shower has followed you here to the doorway, and you know that he knows you’re lying.

 

“You sure?”

 

You shift on your bare toes and nod, biting your bottom lip as you stare up at him, unwilling to look away from that intense molten green gaze.

 

“Okay,” he nods, accepting your answer.  “It’s just that...you’re flushed. Right here,” he begins, reaching with his fingers to trace a gentle path over your cheekbones.  “And here,” he continues, gliding said fingers down over your jaw to your throat. The corner of his mouth lifts in a grin as he fiddles with the collar of his shirt where it hangs open at your neck.  “And probably…” he trails off, gently hooking his fingers into the first button that’s fastened and then he pulls his hand away and shrugs. “I discovered that your skin turns pink when you’re turned on…”  He leans closer so that he’s hanging in the doorway, looming over you in a way that makes you want to climb him like a tree. “When you’re close to coming.” His eyes drift to the towel still wrapped around your head, and he slowly quirks an eyebrow.  “Did I interrupt something?”

 

You quickly yank the towel from your head and drag your fingers back through your damp hair.  God,  _ that _ was a loaded question.  Yes, he’s interrupted you, he’s unfinished with you, he’s ruined you, all of the above, none of the above, and before you can talk yourself out of it you’re on your tiptoes and you’re pulling Sam’s face down to yours, one hand in his hair, the other on his shoulder.  You murmur his name against his mouth and then kiss him soundly, curving your body into his with a sigh. He reciprocates and holds you to him as he matches the intensity of your kiss. It’s not enough, of course, and with your lips still attached to his you walk backward into your dorm room and bring him with you.

 

“I need,” you breathe when he breaks away to make sure the door shuts behind him.  Your hands are still pulling at him, moving to his shirt, his belt, and you look up to see his eyes searching your face.

 

“What,” he asks softly, saying your name and kissing you. “What do you need?”

 

“To review,” you reply without hesitation.  “What we went over last night. What  _ you _ went over last night.”

 

He’s silent for a moment, processing the request, and when he doesn’t say anything, you take up his hand in yours and place it on your breast, squeezing his fingers with yours.  

 

“Jesus, Sam, I need you to make me come again,” you practically growl.

 

The other shoe drops and he hops to action, grinning, nodding, placing his other hand on your other breast and cupping them both as he presses his lips to the underside of your jaw.  He hums as your knees wobble, having mapped and memorized all of your hotspots the night before.

 

His hands sweep down and then up under the hem of the flannel shirt.  When he discovers you’re not wearing any underwear he chuckles and slips his tongue against yours for a spell.  His fingertips are magic, tracing over the curves of your ass, pulling at the creases where they meet your thighs, and you can’t even care that he encounters the slick left over from your desperate attempt to get off in the shower.  

 

“Did you come already?” He rasps between kisses, his teeth tugging at your lip before he devours your mouth again.  He presses on, sliding a hand between your thighs from behind, not touching you anywhere that you need, but letting you know he’s there.  “In the shower, under the water, your fingers deep and your thumb on your clit?”

 

Your lashes flutter at the direct, intimate nature of his inquiry, and huff, and whine, and wiggle in his grip trying to feel something.  “I tried,” you admit with a shake of your head. “But I couldn’t…”

 

“Why not?” he asks, leaning down so that his lips feather over your pulse.  Your eyes slip shut as he continues. “Hmm?” The hand not pressed against your ass floats up and slips a button on the shirt open.  “Tell me why.”

 

“It wasn’t...It wasn’t you,” you sigh, opening your eyes to see the top of his head level with your solar plexus - he’s smoothly dropped to his knees and the idea of it makes your toes curl as you comb your fingers through his hair.  

 

His breath is hot and heavy against your skin, and he moves again, undoing the other button that was holding the shirt closed.  “What wasn’t me?” he gently coaxes. The hand on your ass moves to hold you steady there, and his other hand gently pushes your legs apart so that you have to move your feet to accommodate.

 

“Your...god your mouth.  And your fingers. You’re just...shit, Sam, you’re just so fucking good.  Feel so fucking good.” Your eyes squeeze shut as he presses a soft kiss to one hip bone, and then the other.  

 

“Mmm hmm,” he agrees, now moving the tails of the shirt apart and appraising the tangle of curls between your thighs.  “My hands are so much bigger than yours, aren’t they?” He squeezes your hip where he cups it and then skates his fingertips around your navel.  “Longer fingers, different angle...I can reach all of those places you can’t.”

 

_ And all the places no one else has before _ , your mind adds.  You merely nod, and whimper, and shift where you’re standing.  Your thighs tense with anticipation, and one hand slides down from where it clutches his hair to cup the back of his neck, and you give him a tug towards you, conveying your need.

 

His gaze rolls up to meet yours as he moves closer, and his nostrils flare as he inhales before letting loose a purely male sound, deep and guttural, that makes you flood with warmth.  The tip of his tongue skates along his bottom lip, and both hands move to grip your thighs and hold you steady as he opens his mouth. His eyes never leave yours and his voice is low, and thick with lust as he instructs, “Pay attention, now.  This will be on the final.”

 

+

 

His first attempt is worthy of a standing o, the ‘o’ in this case being orgasm.  Of course, if you thought it prudent and your hands weren’t busy clutching his hair and shoulder you’d probably applause him where you stood, too.  He’s precise, methodical, but efficient, knowing that you’re on the edge already, and have been for a little while. All it takes is a few deep, lush lashes with his tongue, and his lips wrapping around your clit, nose buried in your curls, and your knees are giving out, making you collapse in a shuddering, slick heap in his lap.  His mouth looks too good now to pass up and you wrap yourself around his body and kiss him, groaning at the taste of yourself on his tongue. He’s hard under the fly of his jeans, and the rough fabric scrapes over you and brings you round to where you are: in Sam’s lap, on your living room floor, naked once more.

 

And he’s  _ still _ fully clothed.

 

“Off,” you growl, snaring the hem of his shirt in your fingers and pushing it up his torso.  “This needs to come off,” you say again, “all of it.” Together, the two of you rid Sam of his shirt, and the feel of his skin against yours is delicious and sends a shiver up your spine.  His hands are steady on your hips as you explore, lips and teeth and tongue scoring over his throat, his jaw, his collarbones, and then your hands are gripping the firm muscles of his biceps, and his pecs, searching down over the hard plane of his abs which flutter with your touch.  “Pants, too,” you remind him, already pulling at his belt.

 

He sits back as much as he can given your position, and he watches your hands fumble and tug and finally pry his belt open.  His fingers push your hair from your face, and when you look up at him he ducks down and kisses you while pulling your fingers back to task.  “Keep going,” he murmurs, licking into your mouth and inhaling sharply as you pop open the top button of his fly.

 

The rest of them part easily from the worn denim buttonholes, the sound soft but making you moan as you look down.  He’s a feast for the eyes, and all of the other senses, too, smelling like a forest and soap, hot like a morning on a mountaintop, broad and big and sturdy like the oak trees you climbed as a kid.  He’s tanned almost everywhere, smooth and nut brown, the backs of his hands and forearms darker than the rest of him, which makes you start to wonder what else he gets up to when he’s not in classes.  There are small scars that you’d rather not linger on but don’t ignore completely, and you draw the pads of your fingers of a few of them before shifting in his lap and cupping his face with both of your hands.

 

“You are fucking gorgeous, Sam Winchester,” you say before you kiss him.

 

You feel an ounce of tension release from his shoulders at your admission, like he’s been holding his breath the entire time, waiting for reassurance on a deeper level.  Breaking the kiss, you lean back and look into his eyes. “And you make me feel like I’m the only thing that matters right now.”

 

“You are,” he agrees.  “You definitely are.” His arms wind around your torso and he holds you tightly, one hand splaying up your spine to catch a handful of hair at the base of your neck, the other roaming down to squeeze an asscheek.  Then, he tips backward to the floor, pulling you on top of him, reaching for your hips as he scoots down. “C’mere,” he urges, moving you to his liking until you’re hovering over his mouth. “Right here. Yeah.” 

 

His lips ghost over the insides of your thighs and you tremble and try to move away.  It feels like it’s too much, like he knows everything, but his hands catch you before you can get too far, and he holds you steady, pulling you down.  “I’ve got you. Relax.”

 

“Sa-” you choke on his name as he leans his head up while pulling you down, and his tongue delves right along the slick, hot centre of your body.  You hear him hum and your vision goes white, thighs giving out so that you sink right down onto his face. “Holy  _ fuck _ ,” you utter, tensing and pulling back up.

 

From somewhere between your legs you hear your name murmured, and the sound of his mouth coming wetly away from you.  “You’re really gonna have to relax in order for this to work.”

 

“I’ve never...done this,” you admit, feeling a bit silly.  “Like  _ this _ , I mean.”

 

He moves slightly so that you can see his eyes, and the look of utter shock and outrage is enough to make you giggle.  “You’re kidding me,” he replies.

 

You shake your head, and he rolls his eyes with a sigh.  It only serves to make you giggle more. The tension of the moment begins to dissipate with the humour, and you run your fingers through his hair, and drop a little closer to his face.

 

“Their loss,” he mutters, dropping his gaze back to your core.  He gives a few more licks: light and feathery over your clit, before flattening his tongue and swiping over your opening with a groan.  Both hands are on your ass, pulling you down, and when you finally give in and sit right on his face, he hisses, “Yeah, like that,” and then there are no more words, only the thick, wet velvet heat of his tongue.

 

He makes sounds like a man starving, gulping breaths when he can, only to delve in and tease again, licking and sucking and uttering his praise in a thick voice.  “You taste  _ so _ good,” he whispers, murmuring your name again.  He opens his mouth wide, flexes his tongue and moves his hand, and his fingers join the fray.

 

You hiss and rock up on your knees, arching down into his mouth and giving in to your baser instincts with a whimper, and a sneer.  Another orgasm is swiftly approaching and your hips begin to move as he alternates thrusting with his fingers and tongue. He’s more or less eating you alive, and the realization makes you moan loudly.

 

“Fuck, you’re so wet you’re dripping,” he gasps, humming against you with another lewd kiss.  “Tell me when you’re gonna come.”

 

“I’m close,” you whisper, sucking in a breath and concentrating on the sensations burning through you.  Grinding against his hand you start to lose yourself, chanting his name, begging him not to stop.

 

The fact that he does the exact opposite of your request is a surprise, to say the least, and you whimper as he backs off with his mouth, but keeps circling your clit with his thumb as his fingers slowly pump in and out.  The orgasm that was building fizzes and bubbles, but never pops, and you cry out, frustrated. “Sam!” You’re not above whining at this point, and you tighten the fingers in his hair.

 

“Shhh, don’t worry.  We’ll get there,” he promises, licking the tops of your inner thighs where you’re wet.  He gently nips you there, making you squeal and buck, and he sighs your name and lets go of your ass.  There’s a rustle of fabric, and he moves around where he’s sprawled beneath you. Then his eyes close and tighten, and you feel the arm he has curved behind you start to move.  

 

Twisting around you look to find he’s pried his jeans down past his hips and dragged his boxers just under his balls so that he can get a handful of his cock.  The sight makes you lick your lips - of course, he’s got a dick to match his glorious physique. He’s proportioned perfectly, long and thick, uncut, and the way his foreskin stretches around the shiny tip of him makes you clench around the fingers he’s still got snug in your cunt.  

 

“Fuck,” you whisper reverently, already reaching to grip him.  

 

It makes you stray from Sam’s mouth, and he grabs you and holds you in place with one hand and resumes the assault on your pussy with his mouth.  It dawns on your that he’s so turned on by eating you out that he has to jerk off, and you bloom with warmth and another wave of arousal. You stretch and bend, and circle a hand back just above his, squeezing and twisting your fist in a way that makes him pant into your cunt.

 

Moving his hand to cover yours on his length he guides you enough to get you started, and with a growled, “Don’t stop,” he goes back to hauling you against his mouth by your ass and starts his feasting all over again.

 

He’s heavy and smooth in your hand, and so hot that the idea of having him inside, filling you up to the point of bursting makes a quick gush of slick splash against his tongue.  He heaves a ragged groan and tongues you harder, twisting two fingers into your tight heat and curling them against you. A knot of pleasure begins to take shape in the pit of your stomach and there’s an urgent jerk of your hips as you feel yourself teeter on the edge of something wild.  

 

When he begs you for more, you reply with a tightened fist, rubbing your thumb up the underside of the head and spreading the precome around before jerking him in time with the swing of your hips, and the flicker of his tongue.  “Gonna come?” he grunts, his fingers dragging roughly against you as his hips buck into your grip.

 

You can only sob in reply - you’re not sure exactly  _ what _ is going on other than you’re shaking, and crying out, and working madly to get to a finish line you’ve never reached before, at least not to remember it.  You grunt his name as a plea and a warning, and his cock throbs in your fist as he growls roughly into your core.

 

“Now -  _ fuck! _ Fucking come for me,” he snarls, curling his fingers again and jerking his arm steadily.  “All over me.”

 

For a moment you swear you’re weightless, and you can’t hear anything beyond your own thundering heartbeat.  Then his voice breaks through, pleading, practically begging, and he sounds so good down there, face covered with your pleasure, and his, mile-wide smile and brightly blown eyes.  You cry out sharply, gasp, and your hips rattle down as you drench his mouth, his chin, his throat. His cock jerks in your grasp, and he hiccups on your name before his eyes roll up and he’s spurting hotly all over your knuckles, and howling in pleasure.

  
  



	3. Final

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finals week is upon you both, and as much as you love studying one another’s erogenous zones, it won’t help your GPA one iota if you don’t actually study for something practical. He says as much a few hours later from where he stands under the spray of your shower, crowding you against the cold tiles and kissing you softly.

Sam is snoring where he’s snuggled on his side next to you in your double bed.  It once seemed like a spacious place to sleep, but now it’s almost too small.  _ Almost _ .  You figure you could get used to sharing space with the man next to you, even if he looks comically large on the mattress, long legs and arms wrapped around one of your pillows, his dark hair falling over his closed eyes.  For a second a frown mars his features, and then they smooth out once more as he takes a deep breath and lets it out in a satisfied sigh. Then, he starts snoring again.

 

Okay, so you could share space with him if he didn’t snore.  You had been dozing, but the urge to pee woke you, and now you’re leaning back against the headboard, Sam’s henley hanging off your frame as you balance the borrowed copy of  _ Jaws _ on your knees.  It’s the first time you’ve had a chance to really look at it, and you gently open the cover, flip through the author’s note and acknowledgements, and then you’re on the first page of the first chapter, once more reading the line that his mother had been drawn to several years before.

 

You’re hooked immediately, enamoured by the way this part of the story seems to be told from the shark’s point of view, and you recall the opening scenes of the movie as you go.  There’s not a lot of difference between book and film, but there’s enough that you’re still interested, still as anxious as you were the first time you saw the movie. You know what’s going to happen, and yet you find yourself holding your breath as the girl goes for a midnight swim, ignorant of the threat below the dark surface of the water.

 

Lips moving silently as you read, your heart is in your throat:  _ ‘ _ _ At first, the woman thought she had snagged her leg on a rock or a piece of floating wood. There was no initial pain, only one violent tug on her right leg. She reached down to touch her foot, treading water with her left leg to keep her head up, feeling in the blackness with her left hand. She could not find her foot. She reached higher on her leg, and then she was overcome by a rush of nausea and dizziness. Her groping fingers had found a nub of bone and tattered flesh. She knew that the warm, pulsing flow over her fingers in the chill water was her own blood-’ _

 

A large, warm hand clamps onto your ankle and you let loose a scream so loud that when it finally rings back to your ears you wonder if they heard you down the hall.

 

Sam is already sitting ramrod straight, his eyes wide as he glances around the room, his body moving in front of yours as if shielding you from potential danger.

 

“What is it?” he growls, still scanning the shadows of the bedroom.  He says your name as a question and looks at you, one eyebrow going up in askance.

 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sam!” You snap as your heart tries to regain its beat.  You scowl and shake your leg, trying to dislodge his grip, and when he doesn’t let you close the book and smack him in the bicep with it.  “You scared the shit outta me!”

 

He blinks and swallows thickly as he looks down at the book in your hand.  A split second later and he actually fucking  _ snorts _ , and then his broad shoulders are moving up and down in an effort to keep from laughing.  You try to act indignant, scowling and huffing in annoyance, but that just seems to make him laugh harder, and soon he’s curled on his side, his hand draped over your knee and his thumb rubbing a circle on the smooth skin on the inside of it, and his body still shakes with mirth.

 

“I’m sorry,” he chortles, biting his lip when you glare at him.  He’s quick to move his hand and raise them both placatingly. “I didn’t know you startled that easily.”

 

You shake your head at his adorable expression and set the book aside.  Sam’s smile fades to a content grin as he settles on his side once more and continues to watch you.

 

“My heart just about jumped out of my chest,” you admit.  In fact, you’re certain your pulse hasn’t slowed since he startled you, but you’re sure it has more to do with the way Sam is looking at you at the moment.

 

He’s suddenly up and over you, rolling to his knees and caging you in his arms.  Hovering there, he balances with one hand on the mattress and settles his other hand on your chest, right over your heart.  “You’re definitely excited,” he nods. “You’re flushed again.” His eyes drift from your face and watch his hand slide up over your collarbone to gently cup the column of your throat.  With his thumb, he traces a curve over your pulse, and then he dives down and replaces his thumb with his lips.

 

A breathless murmur leaves you as you reach for him, gripping his back and pulling him down until he’s pressed against you, his hips cradled between your thighs.  The bedsheet has twisted around his lower body somehow, and now he ruts against it, and you, and you know you’re going to have to change these sheets. Shifting his weight, he moves again and now you can feel the insistent press of the head of his cock trying to fuck you through the thin layer of cotton between you.  It’s a dizzying feeling, for certain, and you kiss him to convey your need. He groans and pulls back, settling down to his haunches and gathering you into his hold, hooking your knees over his arms. He’s already descending, preparing to use his mouth once more, when you stop him with a hard hand in his hair, giving it a sharp tug.

 

He grunts at the sting and arches his neck, glancing up at you with a gaze that makes you shiver.  Tracing his up lip with his tongue he presses into your hold, nostrils flared, chest heaving as he awaits your command.

 

You shake your head and the smile he gives you is calculating.  “Got something in mind?” He asks, crawling back up your body until he’s hovering over you again.  His hands smooth over your thighs as he sets you on the mattress, fingertips skimming the sensitive skin on the insides, his thumbs attacking the grooves of your hips.

 

Your hips give an involuntary bounce at his touch, and his teeth show as his smile widens.  Something in his eyes tells you he thinks he’s going to get his own way again. While you know that any other person in your position wouldn’t turn down being eaten out by this man, you’re looking for something more.  Using the grip in his hair to pull him down, you lean up and capture his mouth in a deep kiss while your other hand smoothes down his chest and over his abs. When your fingertips brush over the head of his cock he’s quick to break away with a sharp gasp, and you take the opportunity to lick his mouth and curl your fist around him.

 

The groan he heaves vibrates through him, and you can feel it where you’re squeezing his length, moulding it to your palm, recalling what he taught you just a few hours ago.  He likes a firm, steady hand, and you know he went wild when you dug your thumb into the groove at the tip. Your fingers flutter a few times, reworking your grip and making Sam twist where he held himself above you.  His face is flushed, cheekbones sharp as his features draw in concentration. He lets out a breath, and sighs your name, and then looks down at you with those eyes that just can’t seem to settle on one colour. 

 

“You’re a quick study,” he murmurs thickly, ducking in for a kiss.

 

“What was it you said the other night?” you whisper, jerking his cock steadily and watching his eyelids flutter.  “I have a good grip on the material.”

 

He manages to bark a laugh, but it dies with a desperate whine as he shifts and digs his toes into the mattress, trying to find some traction.

 

“Do you think I’m ready for the final?”

 

His body shivers and he stutters on his next words, not sure what exactly you’re asking.  “I...oh, god, keep doing... _ that _ , yes.  Fuck, yes.”

 

“Yes, I am?”

 

“You are?” he hums, completely lost.

 

You shift around until you can get your foot on the sheet between you, and you push it down and let your legs fall open as your hand eases off his hair.

 

Taking it as his cue to finally move he swoops down, bracing himself with his hands, shoulders and back flexing as his mouth finds yours again.  Then he’s moving you, cupping your thighs and wrapping your legs around his hips, pushing you into the pillows you’d piled against the headboard.  His hips flex and the tip of his cock nudges against you, hot, smooth, hard.

 

Hooking a leg over his hip and looping your arms over his shoulders, you nod when he asks if he can fuck you like this.  You’re covered, you have been since you were a junior in high school, and he nods and tells you he visited the campus sexual health office at the beginning of the semester.

 

“Hold yourself open for me,” he whispers softly, dropping a kiss to your top lip and taking hold of his cock.

 

You’re quick to obey, gazing up at him as he looks down between your bodies.  His hips roll again and you hiss at his heat, and the sudden pinch that comes with him pushing inside.  He has to know he’s bigger than average; waiting for a beat seems par for the course and he licks his lips, pupils blown wide as he watches you stretch around his cock.

 

You’re aching in the most amazing way as he slowly sinks in, and you drop the fingertips of one hand to your mouth, licking them, before you run them around where you’re connected, dragging spit and slick up to your clit.

 

He waits, holds his breath and his body stills as your fingers circle your clit and your cunt squeezes him over and over again.  You can already feel yourself become wetter, and you take another inch of his cock, eyes almost crossing at how thick and hot he feels.  Then you roll your hips, and he lets you use him, lets you fuck yourself on his cock until he feels you tighten and hears the breathy gasp you give when your orgasm shudders through you.  Drawing his hips back and then sweeping them forward in a smooth arc, he slides deeper, not waiting for you to catch up.

 

“Again,” he demands, his mouth bruising yours, tongue wet and firm.  He pulls back, panting, and looks into your eyes as his fingers join yours on your clit.  “Just like that. Come again.”

 

You sink the fingers of your free hand into the thick waves of his hair at the back of his neck in an effort to anchor yourself.  He grunts and digs his hips in, and your thighs shake where they clutch his torso. When your arch your back he ducks down and mouths the slope of your breast, groaning as his lips start a wet, desperate search for your nipple.  His teeth snag it, sending sharp zaps of pleasure out to your extremities, and your toes curl as your cunt clutches Sam where he’s sunk deep inside. He growls around your breast, pulls back with a wet pop, and looks up at you from under his brows.  There’s an expectant grin on his face, and his eyes are sparkling, dark lashes framing the shifting colours. He gives a hard, deep pump with his hips and it pushes the breath from your lungs with a yelp.

 

“Oh god, you’re so close, aren’t you?  I can feel it,” he tells you with an almost reverent sigh.  “One more, and I’ll come with you. Once more. C’mon,” he begs, whispering your name over and over again in the process.  “I wanna feel it.” 

 

Your body immediately responds to the timbre of his voice, and therein the sweet askance overridden with a petulant demanding that can only come from being the younger sibling.  He’s worked so hard to bring you to this point that to deny him would be cruel to both of you. You’ve been in a constant state of arousal since that first night with him and it seems to all be coming to a head here on your sheets.  You nod and clutch the back of his neck. The feel of his fingers and  _ your _ fingers sliding all over your clit, the way he’s seated inside you and moving just enough to pulse against that one spot inside, makes you suddenly snap, and shudder, and suck in a breath before it rushes out:

 

“ _ Sam! Sam, I’m coming, I’m coming-oh!” _

 

This one blooms bright and white hot in the space from your hips to ass, and Sam works through it, the two of you groaning when everything becomes wetter.  He praises you, mouth against yours as he digs his hands under your ass and pulls you up against his pelvis. With your bottom lip snared between his teeth he growls, and he roughly palms your asscheeks, pulling them apart, and somehow getting deeper still.  He lifts you up into his lap, and he settles back on his heels, kneeling under you, his hands steadying your hips. There is no finesse in his next move; he more or less drops you down the length of his cock and it makes you cry out. 

 

He cuts it off with a bruising kiss, and he’s already fucking up into you.  You drape your arms over his shoulders and let your body relax, let him take you where he needs to go.  You feel helpless in the best way, gasping and gulping as you look into his eyes and watch the expressions flit over his face - delight, concentration, determination, elation.  One of his big, broad-palmed hands settles on your tailbone and tilts your hips forward; his other hand slides up your spine and clutches the nape of your neck. Each one of his upward thrusts shakes a sound out of you, and your teeth click together as he picks up speed.  His mouth twists with a lubricious litany, naming all the parts of you he likes best and honoring your ability to take him so well. 

 

All you can do is nod, and agree with him because really he’s in so deep you can’t connect a thought.  His broad shoulders suddenly tremble, and his skin cools as his thrusts become erratic. He’s going to come, you know it, and you can practically taste it on the tip of your tongue.  You want his orgasm more than you want your own, and you watch as his eyelids flutter as he groans, and then moans, and then - yes, he’s a howler, and it suits him, a long, loud, lusty sound that ends with his lip curled around a growl as he drags you down against his final thrust and comes, and comes, and comes.

 

For a while, you merely shiver in his lap, and he shudders, too.  His arms circle your torso and with a satisfied sound rumbling out of his chest Sam tips you back to the mattress, and he falls between your thighs, still deep inside, unwilling to move just yet.  Instead, he kisses you, a languorous exercise of tongues slipping, lips softly wandering, gentle words murmured as you both come back to yourselves. When he finally pulls back and slips from your body you can’t help the way your nose wrinkles in disappointment.  He merely laughs and staggers from the bed, and promises he’ll be right back. 

 

+

 

Once more, you’re awake before Sam, and you wonder if he always sleeps this deeply.  A part of you entertains the thought that perhaps you’ve had something to do with it, but you don’t let your emotions take you too far.  Instead, you merely exist in the moment, wrapped up in Sam in the early morning hours, spring rain pattering the window of your dorm room.  You want to stay like that forever. The reality is, however, that finals week is upon you both, and as much as you love studying one another’s erogenous zones, it won’t help your GPA one iota if you don’t actually study for something practical.  He says as much a few hours later from where he stands under the spray of your shower, crowding you against the cold tiles and kissing you softly.

 

“I wish I had a shower in my dorm,” he sighs wistfully when he pulls away.

 

“Well, you can use mine anytime, Winchester,” you reply, splaying your hands over his chest and the water that caresses his skin.

 

He levels a devilish smile your way, and slides his soapy hands down and around the backs of your thighs “I’ll hold you to that,” he mumbles, hauling you against him.  

 

He’s raging hard against your belly, insistent, and there is no preamble save for the whispered, “Hold on,” and then he’s got you by the back of your knee, and he’s pulling you apart in every direction.

 

+

 

You compare exam schedules over coffee, and you’re both a bit disappointed when you discover that there aren’t really any pockets of time for more than pleasantries.  The exam for your Greek Mythology falls the next Tuesday at 2 pm, before your Art History final, and after his Philosophy final, and then you both have one more exam the following day.

 

“Let’s meet up after the exam anyway,” Sam shrugs.  “You can wait for me after,” he adds with a wink.

 

“You think you’ll be done before me?” you quip, nudging him with your toe under the small cafe table in your kitchenette.

 

“Given your long-winded responses-”

 

“Long-winded?  Okay, ‘Mr. So Get This’!”  You both laugh, and it’s an easy, warm feeling that flutters in your belly.  It comes with a wave of uncertainty, of giddiness and trepidation. No one has made you feel quite the way Sam does.  Finding yourself gazing into his eyes, you quickly look away, and to the clock on your microwave. “We should probably…”

 

“Get going,” Sam sighs.  “Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair and catches your eyes once more.  “So...I don’t know what to call...this,” he starts, waving a hand between the two of you, “But I like it.  I like  _ you _ .  I like spending time with you.”  He pauses and looks down at his empty mug and then back up at you from beneath his long lashes.  “In all manner of speaking.”

 

Your cheeks heat and you bite your lip with a nod.  “Me, too,” you say softly.

 

“Let’s not...let’s just get through finals,” Sam decides.  “And then we’ll have time to maybe...do summer sessions?”

 

You snort at his pun and all the ones that have come before and agree with him.  You were looking forward to the end of the semester, but suddenly, summer studies don’t seem so bad.

 

+

 

By 1:57 pm the following Tuesday, you’re getting worried.  The lecture hall is of course crowded, and there is the subdued murmur of students quickly comparing last minute notes, and papers shuffling as last reviews are made.  You’re in your regular seat, but when you lean back and look to your right for the sixth time in as many minutes, you discover that Sam’s seat is  _ still _ empty.  He’d texted you the prior evening, telling you he’d meet you outside the lecture hall after the exam, and that was the last you’d heard from him.

 

Professor Kotsetas calls attention and goes over a few final details: eyes on your own exam paper, all other papers and books to be stored in your bag under your seat, when finished leave your exam paper face down on the front right corner of her desk and exit the lecture hall quietly.  Final grades will be posted the following week on the student website. The clock ticks down to 1:58, and more paper shuffle, pens clatter, books slam shut, and a hush falls over the room as the exam papers are handed out in an orderly fashion. You look to the door at the bottom of the theater, and then glance back to the one at the top, expecting to see Sam rush in last minute - out of character for him, yeah, but still there, ready to ace the exam.

 

“Eyes to the front,” Kotsetas calls collectively, but you know it’s directed at you.  You swivel in your seat, take a paper from the stack handed to you, and then pass the rest of the stack along.

 

“You have three hours to write.  The time is now 2 pm. Good luck.”

 

“Fuck,” you utter quietly, turning the exam over and reading all of the questions first.  You steal another covert glance to your right, but Sam’s seat remains empty.

 

+

 

You answer all the easiest questions first, get them out of the way, and then circle back to the long answer ones, and the essay questions at the very end.  So far there hasn’t been anything too traumatic, but you’re half distracted with the fact that Sam hasn’t shown up, and you glance over at his seat again, and that’s when Kotsetas finally calls you out, addressing you formally using your last name.

 

“Is there anything on that side of the room that is more important than your exam paper?”

 

Your cheeks heat and you see more than a few heads turn your way as you look at Kotsetas who has rounded her desk to perch on the edge, her arms crossed and her expression expectant.

 

“No, Professor,” you shake your head.  “Did...Did Sam Winchester defer the exam?”

 

Kotsetas flicks her dark gaze to the empty seat and then she looks back to you.  “If I were you I’d worry about my own academic standing, and leave Mr. Winchester to his own problems.”

 

You bite your lip, and nod, and look down at your paper again.

 

+

 

By the time you’ve answered everything to the best of your ability, your eyes are burning from keeping focus on the white pages of the exam, and your neck is aching from not moving.  You didn’t dare look up again, not even when the lecture hall door at the top opened and closed with a hollow  _ bang _ .  After that, students began filing out, finished with their exams, but their exits were more subdued.  When you decide that you can’t do any more on the exam, you stand, shoulder your bag, and trudge down the stairs to Kotsetas’ desk, and lay the exam paper down.  Just as you’re about to turn away, her voice stops you.

 

“He didn’t defer,” she mutters.  “If you see him, tell him that his charm isn’t going to save him from a failing grade.”

 

Your stomach sinks and you nod and take the lower door out of the lecture hall.

 

+

 

You have an hour before your Art History exam starts and so, half worried and half pissed-off, you march across campus to Sam’s dorm building, and hop the elevator to the fifth floor.  The halls are mostly empty, with the residents all writing various finals or getting that last minute study time in. Reaching Sam’s door you raise your knuckles and give it a good whack, preparing for a rapid-fire succession of knocks when the door swings open.

 

Frowning, you edge into the doorway.  “Sam?”

 

There’s no answer; he’s not in the living room, and you take a few steps in as your mind plays out a myriad of scenarios, ranging from Sam oversleeping to...well, it  _ is _ finals, and there is a lot of pressure on students.  You shake your head with the last thought and look around the living room.

 

_ Deserted _ is a better word than ‘empty’.  The furniture is still there, and there are dishes in the sink of the kitchenette, but the bookshelves have been almost completely emptied.  The only things occupying the shelves are contemporary novels and a small pile of textbooks.

 

“Sam, are you here?” you call again.  But you already know the answer as you move down the hall and open his bedroom door.

 

(You think maybe you’ve known the answer since the first time you saw him.  There was always an aura of mystery that surrounded Sam, and he carried the weight of it like he had no other choice.) 

 

The bed is unmade, and the few personal belongings that had been housed on top Sam’s small chest of drawers are gone.  Yanking a drawer open, your suspicions are confirmed: it’s empty, as is the one below it, and the one below that. The closet doors have been thrown wide, and the hangers are vacant.

 

Sinking to the edge of the bed, your fingers curl into the sheets there.  He’s gone, simple as that. No explanation, no warning, just... _ gone _ .  The emptiness of the dorm room closes in on you with an unsettling feeling.  Wherever he’s gone to, he’s left in a hurry. And possibly moments after he spoke to you the night before.

 

Thinking that a text is pointless - if he had wanted to tell you he was leaving, he would have - you still pull your phone out and open your messages, finding Sam’s name at the top of the list.  You start to type furiously, telling him exactly what’s on your mind, only to delete and start again, the message now pleading, almost begging. You don’t send that one either, and for a while you stare at the blank space, the cursor ready and waiting.  Finally, you tap in a simple message:

 

**Stay safe** .

 

The message remains unopened, and you refuse to delete it until you’re forced to upgrade your phone the next fall.

 

+

 

_ Five Years Later _

 

The phone on your desk rings to life and you snatch it up, cradling it between your shoulder and your ear while your gaze remains trained on your computer and the story you’re working on for The Metro.

 

It’s Hannah on the other end, the main secretary at The Metro.  “Hey. So, there are two FBI agents out here asking to speak with someone working on the, um...Bigfoot stuff.”

 

You roll your eyes and curse your editor out under your breath for giving you that dumb-ass story last fall.  It had caused enough ribbing from your peers, and from several non-believers in the area, but it had also made you a target for every cryptid-loving whackadoodle within a five-hundred-mile radius.  And now the  _ Feds _ wanted to talk to you?

 

“FBI?” you snort.  “Let me guess: Mulder and Scully?”

 

“Um, no, hang on.”  Hannah presses the phone to her chest, but you can hear voices murmuring.  Then, she’s back again. “Agents Brody and Hooper.”

 

The names strike a chord with you, but you don’t know why.  Furrowing your brow, you check your watch, and decide that if they’re Feds then you’re probably obligated to speak with them.  The story you’re working on is almost done, so you tell Hannah you’ll be right down to meet them.

 

You can hear Hannah giggling when you get off the elevator, followed by the deep timbre of a male voice.  When you round the corner you take in the sight of a tall, solid-looking man dressed in a conservative suit, leaning on the reception desk and flashing a dazzling smile at her.  He’s probably already got her number - hell, you’ll probably give him your number, too, if he flashes that smile your way.

 

And then he does, all white teeth and green eyes and dark blond hair, and you paste on your best diplomatic face despite the fact that his gaze has turned your knees to jelly.

 

“Hi,” you greet, giving him your name.  “Agent…?”

 

“Martin Brody,” he replies, standing straight and coming round the desk to meet you.  He offers his hand and you shake it, and try to keep yourself from melting into a puddle at his feet.  “This is my partner, Agent Matt Hooper.”

 

Those names again.  You glance past Brody and the breath catches in your throat as Hooper turns around.

 

_ Sam Fucking Winchester _ your brain supplies.  You have to blink a few times, thinking your brain is playing a trick on you.  It’s not, and he seems just as surprised to see you. You look back to ‘Brody’, and then once more to Sam, shaking your head with a fond smile as the aliases fall into place.  The book he lent you still has a place on your bookshelf, and you find yourself reading it at least twice a year. The green and white plaid you wore home that first morning after the night before still hangs in your closet, though it’s threadbare.

 

“Bigfoot, Hooper?”  You cross your arms over your chest and raise your eyebrow in challenge.  “I thought you were in sharks?”

 

~end~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always a million thanks to incog_ninja and marksmanfem for the flailing and the notes and the grouptexts and the general fuckery. I love you glitches

**Author's Note:**

> incog_ninja and marksmanfem are invaluable and you'd be lucky to have friends like these two. Without them and their trusty pompoms this never would have gotten beyond me whining and kicking rocks and lamenting over Sam's obvious oral skills.


End file.
